


The Nature of Cats

by Project0506



Series: Random YOI Silliness [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-15 08:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11802078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: It is the natural inclination of both small children and cats to be discovered sleeping in the most peculiar of places.Or5 really weird places Yuri decided to nap and alarm the hell out of his friends (+1 place that was absolutely perfect).





	1. Otabek Altin and the Not-Dead Prince

**Author's Note:**

> I've learned my lesson from previous chaptered fic and I assure you all, this is already half written so there's a much better chance of me actually finishing!
> 
> Thanks to @sniperinajumper for taste-testing my soundbites!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks who liked this as I posted it but it took me all of 20 minutes to hate it so I did some heavy editing.

1.

It's all a little too much sometimes. Otabek is all of thirteen and on his way to being a professional athlete and right now all he wants to do is be standing in his mother's kitchen, drying dishes while his sister washes. It's a peculiar and very specific sort of homesickness that bloomed partway through the healthy, tasteless meal shared with a dozen kids half his age and twice as good as he'll ever be.

 

He's a skater, not a ballerino. And the boy he's trying to grow out of _hates_ that no one seems to believe he can be the former without the latter. He knows he can dominate the ice, that place where everything fades to the chill spike in his lungs and the burn in his joints. The ice is where he say what he means without the handicap of rough words that either come too sharp or not at all. He knows the ice down in his bones like an old friend. Similarly, he knows he could practice Grand Adage every day for the rest of his life and still never come close to the grace of someone like Yuri Plisetsky, the boy with soldier's eyes and apparently an elastic spine.

 

No one with any common sense will ever, ever, ever attempt to put Otabek en pointe, is what he's saying.

 

It was a little too much when he couldn't keep up with the juniors, and it's a little more when he's falling behind the novices. Not quite disheartening, not quite embarrassing, not quite angering, just a little much.

He's still so achingly grateful to have been allowed to be here, so he won't ruin it by lashing out in jealousy at the next toddler to fouette into his personal space. He just needs a little bit of breathing room.

 

He slinks out the back doors: a pair of foreboding, industrial steel things that, though the students were never actually warned off of them, gave off an aura of the forbidden. Otabek half expects the hinges to creak ominously and summon an instructor. Or, or maybe some previously unseen painting will start shrieking 'Students out of Bed!' like in Garri Potter.

He floats down the gray industrial steps to the gray industrial alley, so caught up enough in debating what his wand would be made of (Chestnut or maple maybe? With dragon heartstring for sure!) that he nearly steps on the splash of gold splayed across the bottom step. It's the sudden shift of color that snags his attention, more so than the probably dead kid the gold hair is attached to.

 

There's a laden moment where Otabek stares kind of dumbly at the slack face of one Yuri Plisetsky, his head on the bottom step, butt three steps up, one arm hanging limply through the gaps in the wrought iron railing and the other curved protectively across his middle.

 

Yuri Plisetsky lies strewn down the conservatory's back stairs, beautifully tragic in the way of the last moments of a butterfly as it falls to a city sidewalk, and Otabek is the _only person around_.

 

He drops to his knees next to the younger boys head before he even finishes processing the thought, the dull reverberation of impact easily dismissed in Otabek's frantic attempt to find breath. He breathes, the Russian breathes and _not dead not dead!_ But beyond that Otabek is lost. He's breathing and that's great, and Otabek can't see blood but he knows enough to know that there's a massive number of other things that could be wrong. Spine injury? You're not supposed to move someone with a spine injury, he knows that much. But what are you supposed to do?

 

Adult, Otabek slowly realizes. I need an adult.

 

“I'll be right back!” He tells the boy, and he's self-aware enough to realize it came out like a scream.

 

The first adult he finds, the novice instructor, is in his opinion appropriately panicked but not particularly helpful. She rushes off to find the novices' overseer, who in turn finds the camp coordinator who _then_ finds Mr. Feltsman. Unlike the others, Mr. Feltsman is, in Otabek's opinion, not _nearly_ panicked enough.

 

“Off to bed, boy,” he grumbles and promptly seems to put Otabek out of his mind entirely. No one is calling an ambulance. Otabek thinks this is a definite problem. There's a kid smeared down the back stairs: someone should be calling an ambulance. Otabek sits down with his back to the wall and tries not to panic.

 

With a few words from Mr. Feltsman, the other coaches disperse, leaving only Otabek, Mr. Feltsman and, amazingly, Georgi Popovich.

 

(It's a really bad time, but Otabek is faintly disappointed he doesn't have anything for the Olympic bronze medalist to sign. It'd be in such bad taste to ask but he'd still have something signed by _Georgi Popovich_.)

 

The two adults seem to grumble at each other for a moment more before Georgi Popovich rolls his eyes so dramatically his whole head tilts, hops down the stairs two at a time and slings his _probably dying countryman_ over his shoulder like _a potato sack_.

 

Otabek doesn't know what noise he makes but both Russians turn to him with similar looks of alarm. “Didn't I send you to bed Altin?”

 

Otabek kind of nods and kind of shakes his head at the same time. “Sir,” he acknowledges, and leans around the man to try to keep an eye on Georgi Popovich retreating with his cargo. “Yuri Plisetsky-”

 

“He's fine.” Mr. Feltsman has the type of voice that is either right, or the world adjusts until it _is_ right. It seems to be a universal trait of professional coaches, as far as Otabek's experienced.

 

He's shuffled off to bed with no further explanation.

 

It takes a good long while of staring up at the wood-colored bottom of the top bunk before understanding hits. Yuri Plisetski isn't injured; he's sick! He's sick and it's probably chronic, since everyone in charge already seemed to know about it. For the past week Otabek had admired Yuri to the point where he couldn't even manage to be truly jealous of him, but now all of that was magnified a hundred times. To think, a guy like that is able to dance with such fire and passion in every movement, even while suffering from a chronic illness. Otabek is so incredibly impressed!

 

He vows that night that he'll do whatever it takes to meet that boy again as an equal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's fine! Just exhausted and wanted to get a bit of fresh air himself.


	2. Georgi Popovich and the Right to Bared Arms

2.

 

Georgi stares at Mila, or more like the side of her head as she's very pointedly not looking back. “I fail to see how this is my problem,” he says after a long moment. It's far more plaintive than he was going for.

 

“You're the adult,” she shoots back.

 

“You have better upper body strength?” he tries.

 

Mila snorts. “That's not something a man should be proud of!” Georgi shrugs. That's fair. Still, at barely fifteen Mila's basically an Amazon and she makes sport of catching unsuspecting national hockey team players and spinning them around over her head until they hork. Georgi has no problem admitting her gun show makes his look like peashooters.

 

He's not going to win an argument with her, so his best bet is to try to make a break for it. She's got him beat in upper body strength but at a dead sprint he'll leave her in the dust. He just has to get through the twisty turns to backtrack to the main hallways, plot a course that she can't make pace by slingshotting herself around corners as if broken wrists are a thing that only other people have to worry about, and he'll be fine.

 

A grip like iron shackles clamp down on his forearm and she smiles sunnily at him with far too many teeth. “Zhora,” she sings, “didn't Yakov leave you in charge?”

 

“He probably didn't mean it,” Georgi all but begs. “He knows you're mature enough-” The grip on his arm slowly tightens until he can feel his pulse in the tips of his fingers. “Milochka he bites!”

 

He does: that's 100% why Mila called Georgi in the first place and they both know it.

 

“We have no more towels,” Mila snaps as though her and Yuri's long lustrous locks have nothing at all to do with that problem. “So unless you want to be drying your ass with your grotty tank top we need to do laundry.”

 

Georgi venomously opposes the 'we' in that, except for how his blood circulation is about to be cut off.

 

“I'm having syrniki for breakfast,” he declares. “ _Every day_. With extra jam. And you will not breathe a word of it to Yakov.”

 

“Yes, yes, _fine_. Go.”

 

Georgi goes, marching as a man to war.

 

For a hellbeast of pure malice probably raised from Purgatory by Lilia Baranovskaya for the sole purpose of ridding Yakov of the last of his hair, Yuri is kind of adorable asleep. He's curled in a tight comma with his nose tucked up under an arm like a fox and every so often he'll give a wordless grumble of displeasure, shift a little and then settle back into calmness. It would make a wonderful greeting card, if he weren't also wedged deep into the last functional top-load industrial washing machine in the dorms.

 

“Why?” Georgi cries quietly.

 

“Why does Yuri do anything?” Mila responds philosophically from a position at the furthest end of the room.

 

To hasten the inevitable descent of the world into anarchy, according to drunk-Viktor. Apparently when Hell takes over, Yuri will be given Monaco and he can fill it with very angry cats. Drunk-Viktor is always so much more opinionated than regular-Viktor.

 

Georgi carefully lifts the lid of the washer. There's a sick sort of anticipation that builds and builds until he can just as carefully rest the lid against the washer controls and take two large steps back. Yuri sleeps on. This should be a board game, Georgi thinks. The player has to carefully remove a slumbering rink mate from a washer drum and any misstep could mean sudden, screaming dismemberment. He feels it will sell well in Russia. Something to think on, once he retires.

 

“Yura, you need to wake up” he calls, though not very hopeful. It's only the split second of awakening where there's the risk of being bitten. Afterwards the worst they have to deal with is incoherent, aimless rage. Yuri's verbal emasculation tends to wait until his brain's fully online. Of course, Georgi could get _really_ lucky and get that sleepy, snuggly, not-all-awake Yuri, but that one usually only happens when the boy's spent a solid week working himself into a coma.

 

One of Mila's hair bands whizzes past Georgi's ear to ping neatly off Yuri's nose. It wrinkles cutely, but he doesn't otherwise twitch. He won't wake. Someone will have to reach in and...

 

“...There's a laundromat-”

 

“It's -6 outside. Stop stalling.”

 

You can still skate without arms, Georgi reminds himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why a washing machine? Who really knows anymore.
> 
> Also, I honestly don't know what happened last chapter. Otabek just wouldn't stop talking to himself. Sorry!


	3. Yakov Feltsman's Moonlight Sonata

3

“Irresponsible!” Yakov snarls, both at his charge and the memory of the bleating media masses. They're all so _stunned_ to see such skill, so _impressed_ that little Yuri can do quads at his age, how does it feel, will he be adding the quad Salchow to his roster for the rest of the season? “You will destroy your knees by 19, and then what? You will go advertise breakfast foods and men's body sprays? You will watch older skaters have another decade of a career while you rot, because you are too reckless with your body.”

 

Fine gravel crunches under their shoes, the only sounds in the vicinity save for Yakov's furious heaving breaths and a very faint, distant sound of late night city outskirts traffic. “A clean skate of your program would have gotten you gold regardless, if you had bothered to mind your performance. A quad wasn't necessary! What did it earn you? Did you even think if there was any gain from the risk?” Yuri shuffles on behind him, silent as a graveyard and pace as steady as a war drum.

 

Yakov never bothers to ask whether or not any of his skaters are paying attention to his lectures: he knows they aren't, these children who taste flying and believe they will never need land. He remembers a parade of faces who now the world has forgotten, the one-more-times and just-a-little-mores, the one-more-rotations, the one-more-jumps, the one-last-repetitions. The grit-your-teeths, the push-through-the-pains, the I-can-be- _better_ s. The ones who burned bright, so bright, and forgot that what is left after the flame is black and char and ash quickly going cold.

 

Not since Vitya has Yakov seen a flame burn so bright as Yuri's. But with Vitya there had been Lilia, who had been the quiet balance between bloodied feet and intricate braids, who had enforced the brutal hours til perfection with the same vicious tenacity as she had the hours of old romance movies and unbuttered popcorn. Yakov has no talent for comfort, and Lilia has no time for Yakov. Without her, Vitya's body has endured while his eyes loose focus and his smile gets plastic brittle at the edges. Without her Zhora tears his heart out again and again in search of that high he used to get from simply competing. And now again it is down to Yakov to learn how to care for a boy who will not care for himself, and to do it quickly. How, when all he's done is fail?

 

“It's hardly forever, Yura.” The boy's shoulders are dropped, his chin pressed to his chest, and through it all he is silent. Yakov almost prefers the yelling. Almost. Histrionics, he's found, is the average skater's mother tongue. “You are hardly fool enough to accept if I told you you could be competitive in seniors without quads.” Yakov scrubs both hands viciously through the rough ends of his thinning hair. Every year the sport becomes more jump-crazy. The artistry is sacrificed in the name of squeezing as many quads into four minutes as you can before your body gives way. What does the spectacle care for the children it will destroy, so long as there is a good show? There will always, always be more, after all.

 

“When it comes time to plan your senior program, you will have my support and my _guidance_ in training for quads. Until then, for as long as you compete in juniors you are already the best. You have nothing to prove to anyone.”

 

As is customary, Yakov's coffee-brown Lada Nova objects to the bite of cold in the air so the worn rubber outlining the door sticks stubbornly to the frame. He should get rid of the blasted nuisance, it always manages to remind him of Lilia on days like these – stubborn with what it wants and loud when it doesn't get it. He pulls on the handle again and gets nothing more than a creak for his trouble. It's a standard dance anymore, the series of wrenches at the handle and kicks at the running strip before the door comes free. Today it takes four tries and to Yakov the protesting groan of the hinges sounds like victory.

 

He looks up and Yuri is gone.

 

He's too old to be jumping to conclusions and too jaded to be shocked by anything his skaters do anymore. But Yuri is barely a teenager, it's midnight and it's a two and a half hour drive from Veliky Novgorod back to St. Petersburg. There isn't shame in admitting that perhaps his heart rolled a time or two in his chest at the thought of _what that fool boy could get himself into all alone in a city where he knows no one._ Yakov took his eyes off the boy for a _minute_ and he managed to...

 

… apparently keep shuffling across the parking lot.

 

“Yura!” Yakov snaps, truthfully more annoyed at himself but Yuri isn't the only one who can default to angry at the drop of a very stylish, vintage trilby. “Where are you – Yura get back here. _Yuri_!”

 

As really should be expected, Yuri ignores him. Yakov barks his name again and there isn't even an acknowledgment that the boy is intent on ignoring his presence. With another curse for stubborn bastards and unnecessary sources of stress in his life, Yakov throws one hand up to brace his (very stylish, vintage) trilby and jogs after the plodding form of his youngest headache. “ _Yuri Nikolaevich Plisetsky!_ ”

 

Yuri Nikolaevich Plisetsky snorts. He smacks his lips twice, snores for a breath or two that ends in a sniff, and keeps plodding forward.

 

Yakov pulls up short, arm still outstretched for what would have been a thoroughly unenviable shaking. Oblivious Yuri keeps sleeping.

 

In the end, Yakov finds he must have some softness somewhere inside him. He'll yell at Yuri again tomorrow to make of for the lecture he missed of course, but at least he bothers to rouse him before he walks into a wall.

 

 


	4. Minami Kenjirou makes good life choices

4

Kenjirou likes to think of himself as a pretty easy-going type of guy. Sure, he could be a little opinionated. And sure, he's once or twice been called 'a bit excitable' in a tone of voice that made it clear that it was in no way a compliment. But he likes to think he at least tries to get along with most people, and he also likes to think he generally succeeds. Yuri Plisetsky, it turns out, is not like most people.

 

Okay to be clear, there is a certain amount of arrogance that's basically expected when you're as successful as Yuri Plisetsky is in a sport like theirs, doubly so at his age. It's not an excuse to be a complete dick though, especially (Kenjirou thinks unkindly) when the guy uses incredible technical capability in an attempt to hide frankly so-so performance elements. He's _definitely_ no Katsuki Yuuri! A commentator once said something like Yuri Plisetsky would be perfectly happy to have a program that was nothing but jumps down a straight line to the tune of a metronome, if only he could get away with it. Kenjirou hardly thinks he's _that_ bad, but he's a little woodenly robotic for how flexible he clearly can be.

 

The rink seems quieter now that Russia's Ice Palm-Top Tiger has roared off to less boring lands. Even veteran skaters who know better than to let a competitor get to them during the practice session seem to breathe easier now. Maybe Kenjirou can even practice his 3S now that Yuri Plisetsky isn't 10 meters away, throwing out quads like his sports therapist got their degree from a POP Mystery Blind Box, and also doesn't speak Russian.

 

Okay, so it was one quad, and only a couple times, but one of these days the guy is going to hurt himself really badly. Kenjirou just wishes he was brave enough to tell him.

 

It seems like all his inspiration is gone for now though. About the time he finds himself idly swizzling in loose circles he decides it's time to throw it in until the night. He'll not get anything new down now that he hasn't gotten up to this point, and all he'll do is psyche himself out more. He cuts neatly over to the boards where Odagaki-sensei is waiting and watching with the same I-told-you-so face she was wearing when she told him to quit an hour ago, though she's nice enough not to say it. Kenjirou smiles winningly. “I think I'm done now!” he chirps, just to see her resist the urge to roll her eyes.

 

Her post-practice, pre-performance lecture is entirely rote at this point, and Kenjirou can nod and agree and assure in all the right places without having to put too much thought into it. Food and rest and minimal shenanigans all warned for and finally Kenjirou is free. He hands his skates off to Odagaki-sensei and makes a break for it before she starts in on not eating Ebi Fry until he pukes again.

 

_He was six!_ Someday she's going to have to let that go.

 

Like the rest of the rink, the break room-turned competitors' area is just this side of comfortingly cold. It's familiar in the way of pretty much all rinks everywhere: the muted, distant swish of skates cutting across ice nearly drowned out by the drone of air conditioning working overtime. There's a single, slightly worn couch in one corner and some employee has started the task of laying out enough chairs for competitors and coaches along one wall. There's a pair of vending machines selling drinks and snacks next to the door and everything is colored like someone was very uncreative with their IG filter. It's a lot like Kenjirou's home rink actually, minus the blond Russian sleeping mostly in the single black refrigerator.

 

“Um?” Kenjirou asks eloquently.

 

There's no way he's comfortable. He looks like he just kind of fell there. His cheek is smushed to the little clear door over where people put like butter and things. It's causing his shoulder to jammed almost up to one ear, and he's only keeping balance by virtue of the fact that he has a knee braced against the second-from-the-bottom shelf. The fridge door sways ever so slightly with each breath. There's a spot on the thigh of his leggings where unidentified condiments that coagulated in the racks of the door have left their mark. It's an unbelievable, ridiculous, undignified position and Kenjirou knows, without ever having exchanged a direct word with the Russian, that if anyone finds out he saw this he will be murdered so hard in the face.

 

On one hand, it's refreshing to see that even someone as naturally talented as Yuri Plisetsky clearly works as hard as any of them to the point of exhausting himself. As technically-senpai, Kenjirou really should be helping his junior navigate the stresses of international competition.

 

On the other hand, Yuri Plisetsky famously refers to his skates as knife shoes. Sensei would be _really_ disappointed if Kenjirou was too murdered compete after they flew all the way here.

 

He compromises and carefully tucks his own jacket around tiny shoulders and slides a towel between Yuri's face and the glass so it doesn't stick. And then he makes the sensible option to retreat with all the haste. Kinda cowardly, maybe. He'll just have to make sure to cheer extra _extra_ loud for Yuri tonight to make up for it.

 


	5. Viktor Nikiforov, Family Man

5

 

Yuuri is smiling. He's smiling and he's not shying away from the bare suggestion of Viktor's fingers at his back or the heat of their arms just nearly brushing as they walk. Like this Yuuri is soft and unguarded, miles and worlds away from the heated seductress he plays on the ice but no less irresistible for it. Like this, Yuuri will lean in ever so incrementally when Viktor uses the motion of tucking a stray wisp of dark hair back behind the temples of his glasses as an excuse just to touch him. Like this, Yuuri will use the motion of turning to meet Viktor's eyes as an excuse to brush his lips fleetingly across the cool, inexplicably heavy band of gold on Viktor's right hand.

 

Their exhibition skate has somehow left them both deep in a mindscape where they cannot help but be perfectly in tune. It is over an hour and a city block later, in the slow sway of a Barcelona elevator, and still they are dancing the push-and-pull, ebb-and-flow steps that has been them from the very beginning, to music they've written themselves in the missteps and miscommunication that still managed to pull together into a duet that stunned the world.

 

Viktor is so, so ridiculously in love with this man.

 

He swirls through their hotel room door dramatically with the toss of hair and upturn of chin he's found has a 98% chance of making Yuuri giggle helplessly and it works beautifully. Viktor's fiance ( _fiance!_ ) is laughing too hard to resist when Viktor's press of hand at his back becomes a tug at his hips, and the two twirl into the choreography of Stammi Vicino that Viktor already knows they will dance at their wedding. ( _Wedding!_ With his _fiance_! Who will be his _husb-_ oh Viktor's heart cannot take that right now, he's an old man.)

 

They're riding the last dregs of adrenaline, and while Viktor knows the crash will come fast and hard he finds he cannot care so long as it happens here, with Yuuri's hands on his shoulders and Yuuri's ring on his hand.

 

The crash, naturally, happens right then.

 

“Viktor!” Yuuri calls, alarm stretching the name out to three syllables. Viktor blinks up from the carpet as he tries to parse the last fraction of a second. His head throbs, his legs are flung every which way, his left arm is reminding him that the funny bone was fantastically misnamed in English, and there is a brown and black spotted shoe sticking out from under what was formerly Yuuri's bed but is now their costume storage.

 

Viktor hasn't cursed properly in years. It's a bad habit his publicist had been adamant he never practice in his personal life, lest he slip in public. He's very, very tempted to right now.

 

He smiles the smile that is most unfriendly, grabs the offending ankle, and yanks hard. It's a bit like a magic show: 'Nothing up my sleeve. What's this under the bed? Shock, it's a grumpy cat!' Yuuri is an appropriately astonished audience.

 

“Yurio! What?!”

 

Viktor gives the sleeping teenager an even more unfriendly smile. “Yes. He does that.”

 

Yuri is still in his own exhibition costume (more rip than fabric, a clear childishly attention-seeking attempt, Viktor thought, to outshine the majesty of his and Yuuri's performance. Too bad it _failed_! As if anything could overshadow Viktor's _fiance_.) Yuri's makeup is a panda-like smudge around his eyes and down one cheek where the mascara lost the battle to sweat and probably the carpet. He's made the slightest acknowledgment of the December weather by throwing a passingly familiar blue, white and gold jacket on top of the ensemble, though the thing is at least three sizes too large and does nothing to hide the knobby jut of his collar bones. The overall scene is distinctly Dickensian, if Oliver Twist was trying too hard to be Eccentrica Gallumbits.

 

Yuuri crouches down next to them and flutters, as if desperately wanting to check Yuri's pulse but not quite knowing how. “Is he alright?”

 

“Fine,” Viktor mutters. There is no saving the mood from here, he knows, and getting frustrated will only agitate Yuuri. He breathes in slowly, then lets it all go.

 

(And then snaps a picture for Insta. He's very careful to get the white crust of drool in the corner of Yuri's mouth in the shot. Some things are deserved.)

 

“He's fine. Just asleep. Probably up all night redoing his exhibition and costume.”

 

Yuuri eyes the teenager in a mix of faint concern and bewilderment. “But... why is he under the bed?” 'Why is he under _my_ bed' is really the more important question, Viktor thinks, but Yuuri has always been very accommodating of Yuri's foibles. Clearly Viktor will have to step up as disciplinarian if they want this family to work; stealing a newly engaged man's hotel key card is _just not done._ And as to why? No doubt it is just one more stop on Yuri's quest to take everything that is good and pure in the world and crush it beneath his tiny, tiny cheetah print Chuck Taylors.

 

Viktor breathes again. Letting go, it turns out, is much easier said than done.

 

“Yurio can stay awake as long as he wants, so long as he's moving. Once he stops, the days catch up to him and he will drop wherever he is. And once he's out, he's out.” He scritches at Yuri's ankle, still sprawled across his lap from where he had been unceremoniously plucked from beneath the bed. The teen twitches away, grumbles faintly and curls up with his back to both men. It's really adorable. Viktor snaps another picture. (@y-plisetsky all worn out from playing dress up #socute #smolson #GPF2016 #Barcelona) “It made for some amusing train rides. Though not so much for Zhora; concerned citizens have a habit of calling police when they see him carrying an unconscious small blond child through the streets.”

 

Yuuri covers a grin at that and tries desperately to make sounds of compassion. Viktor grins back. It was exactly as hilarious as it sounds. He and Mila livetweeted the whole thing. Yakov had them doing suicides for _days_. Yuuri shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet, and it is happy, happy coincidence that Viktor's seat on the floor gives him the absolute best vantage point to watch his thighs flex.

 

He wants to bite them. He wonders if Yuuri would let him bite them. Then, he remembers. Yuuri is his _fiance_! He is 100% allowed to ask now!

 

“I want to bite your thighs,” he sighs. “And your butt. Can I?”

 

Yuuri drops his armful of Eros costume and squeaks. “Vik-to-ru!” he whisper-shrieks. “Yurio is _right there_!”

 

It's not a no, but it's still disappointing. Viktor frowns down at the blond. “We can put him in the hall. This is a good hotel, he'll be fine.”

 

Yuuri glares. “He's a _teenager_ ,” Yuuri says in the same tone of voice someone would say 'helpless orphan newborn baby bunny', as though he hadn't ever actually met awake-Yuri. “We are not putting Yurio out in the hall to do...do _that_. Help me clear the bed.”

 

Viktor grumbles but pries himself off the floor and helps clear a spot for their interloper. He'll have to resign himself to nothing beyond aggressive spooning tonight.

 

The moment Yuri wakes up, Viktor is going to make out with his fiance in _all the places_ until the teen's tiny angry head explodes.

 


	6. Otabek Altin will never actually finish a movie ever again

+1

Less than half an hour into their first in-person movie night (#NetflixNoChill, JJ had tweeted back after Otabek made the mistake of advertising their plans. #BabysFirstGrownUpDate was Isabella's.  Otabek needs new friends), Otabek finds out that Yuri is probably the worst bedmate literally on the planet. He snores, he mutters, he tosses, he kicks. He occasionally gnaws softly on any part of Otabek's shirt he got too close to, before grunting irritably and trying to roll over. Considering they're both crammed into Yuri's twin bed, there's not exactly far to go. Otabek's having a devil of a time trying to keep both his boyfriend and his laptop from making a quick trip to a cold floor. He's kind of afraid that either of them landing down there is grounds for losing them forever in the sheer forest of junk Yuri's cultivated.

 

On screen, a teenage girl is lured away from a cornfield rave and before Otabek can find out whether or not she's going to survive (she's not, there's no way) Yuri again tries to put his foot through Otabek's MacBook.

 

“Damn it Yura,” Otabek snarls.

 

“Fuck your waffles,” Yuri snarls right back.

 

He's the most adorable thing Otabek's seen, actually ever.

 


End file.
